


you're under fire (i'll cover you)

by peterpiperparker



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Gen, Good Bro Jason Todd, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Jason is a Lit Nerd, Mental Health Issues, Minor Injuries, Missions Gone Wrong, Tim Drake Has a Bad Time, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, as she should, background timsteph, but like, his pasta may be cold but his heart is warm, let him love dammit, my poor baby boy, steph brown shows up, we also stan brothers tim and jason, we love and appreciate steph in this house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26742985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpiperparker/pseuds/peterpiperparker
Summary: When Tim is injured on patrol, he's ordered to bedrest. Instead he finds himself running straight to the doorstep of a man who tried to kill him--the Red Hood.or: how tim drake finds common ground with jason todd--the ground of a warehouse, that is--and bonds over it.
Relationships: Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 20
Kudos: 440
Collections: Batfam Big Bang 2020





	you're under fire (i'll cover you)

**Author's Note:**

> this is my piece for the [batfam big bang](http://batfam-big-bang.tumblr.com)!!! this bang has been such a special part of my life, modding and making such wonderful friends these past few months. i'm so grateful to have had this experience with everyone, and proving to myself that i can finish a full fic in the time allotted on top of classes and modding two bangs. i hope y'all enjoy my fic!! it's a lil piece of me that's out there now so handle it with care, will ya?
> 
> special thanks to my betas cess ([wiitts](http://wiitts.tumblr.com)), ren ([dont-taunt-the-octopus](http://dont-taunt-the-octopus.tumblr.com)), and september ([schweeeppess](http://schweeeppess.tumblr.com)), and my artists, auri ([battoad](http://battoad.tumblr.com)), cai ([reese-haleth](http://bisexualoftheblade.tumblr.com>bisexualoftheblade</a>\),%20and%20reese%20\(<a%20href=))! i had the best team i could have possibly asked for, and i love and appreciate each and every one of you <3

As the sharp right hook lands on his cheekbone, Tim snaps out of focus for a few seconds and misses the uppercut aimed at his jaw. The hit knocks him back a few feet, but he manages to keep his legs steady enough to stay upright. He clenches his teeth from the burning in his shoulder, the bullet that struck it earlier shifting with every movement.

Apparently thugs don’t appreciate drop-ins, and throwing their guns out the window only aggravates them further. Tim learns something new everyday. 

And his dad said putting on a cape wouldn’t be beneficial.

A voice in the back of Tim’s mind hisses that he won’t last much longer like this, but he shoves that thought further back. Tightening his hold on his bo staff, he feels a newfound determination that’s gathered in him purely out of spite.

This determination lasts for a solid five hits, with Tim landing some good licks on the thug, but then a lucky aim knocks the staff from his hands and breaks two of his fingers along with it. The adrenaline rushing through him numbs the pain so easily that Tim hardly even registers feeling them crack. That voice hisses more urgently, and it’s morphing uncomfortably close to Dick’s voice, but Tim continues to ignore it in favor of concentrating on the broad man in front of him.

Priorities and all that.

If he weren’t currently getting his ass handed to him, Tim would feel the frustration that comes with wrongfully underestimating an opponent. It’s a rookie mistake that would make Bruce look at him with his Disappointed Dad Look for a couple minutes until he relents and tells Tim to hit the showers.

Never assume a thug is an easy drop. It’s been drilled into his head and then some since he was thirteen and started this hero gig. 

And yet he _did_.

Tim is a bit preoccupied to really dwell on this. There’s always later to really drown in everything he’s done wrong tonight, when he’s home and the thug is dealt with.

The thug pulls something out of his pocket, metal glinting in the harsh light of the warehouse. Tim chances a look over at his bo staff, several feet away. 

Okay. There might not _be_ a later.

“Killing a Robin won’t be as original as you think,” Tim says dryly, eying the knife to try gauging the thug’s next move from subtle body language.

His right shoulder is tensed, and his legs are bending at the knees— _oh shit_. Stabby springs forward, knife ready to run Tim through. The bullet slows him down considerably, but Stabby doesn’t seem to be as adept with his knife as he is with his gun and fists.

Tim dodges sloppily, his shoulder twitching in pain at the sharp movement. His jagged motions match Stabby’s wild swings in time as well as he can through the agony. They move like dancers with two left feet until Tim slips up and doesn’t escape the distance quick enough. The knife slides smoothly between his armor plates, the luckiest shot Stabby has probably ever gotten in his criminal life.

Tim staggers back. He uses the momentum of the thrust to knock Stabby away from him in an attempt to make space to catch his breath for a moment. A bullet in your shoulder and a knife sticking out of your side really take a lot out of you, apparently.

That proves to be a mistake when Stabby’s friend, Trigger Happy, rouses from the corner Tim had dragged him to earlier after disarming him and knocking him out. His shoulder throbs at the reminder of the bullet wedged next to his shoulder blade, and he’s relieved that he had the sense to take the guns out of the equation. 

That relief is sucked away when Trigger Happy lunges himself at Tim, who isn’t prepared for a two-on-one in his condition. 

Bruce would be fine in these odds. Tim _knows_ this. Dick would even have a high chance of coming out of this relatively fine, with a few extra flips and kicks. If Damian could see him now, he can only imagine how he would lose the dregs of respect he’s managed to earn from the kid.

A small _“Fuck,”_ escapes him, and he can’t tell if it’s from the sudden weight on his gunshot wound or the deep cut of _feelings_ that hit him when he thinks of the capabilities of the other bats; the _disappointment_ he can feel from just the image of Bruce in his mind.

Tim’s thoughts linger on Bruce in subconscious desperation, but he clears that away quickly and puts his attention back to the fight at hand.

It seems gravity is betting against Tim in this fight, pulling the floor from under him as he starts to feel dangerously dizzy, crumpling under Trigger Happy like a paper bag. Stabby may not be adept with the blade, but Trigger Happy is a triple threat with his fists, gun, and knife. His hands are on the knife for mere seconds— _seconds_ —before Tim manages to wrestle away from his grip, and yet he could still feel the knife twist ever so slightly, carving through his flesh.

His nerves scream bloody murder.

Out of pure survival instinct, Tim pulls a batarang from a pocket and shoves it into Trigger Happy’s arm, causing him to cry out in pain and scramble to let go of him. Tim lands hard on the ground, his stomach meeting the concrete, but hardly feels anything but the knife settling uncomfortably into its new position in his side. 

Trigger Happy runs out of the warehouse, blood flowing from his arm. Tim relaxes minutely—one-on-one is more doable—and throws a second batarang at Stabby when Tim notices him advancing toward him. It hits Stabby in the abdomen shallowly, his karma running out along with the puff of air escaping his lips at the shock of being stabbed.

Or, at least, that’s the reason Tim’s mind, addled by blood loss, supplies for him. His body slumps against the ground despite every instinct screaming at him to get back up. Stabby laughs slightly at Tim’s limp body and steps over him, boot pressing into the steadily growing puddle of blood.

“The Bat’s kids aren’t as invulnerable as they say they are, huh, Red Robin?”

Tim’s eyes remain trained on each bloody boot print that trails behind Stabby as he walks out of the warehouse, presumably feeling triumphant over killing another Robin. After his eyes start to water from staying open too long he blinks and comes back to the world abruptly, the sensations his mind had been blocking returning to his wounds.

His comm lies about ten feet away from him, he notices suddenly, and he feels dread seep through every inch of his body. Tim tries to move closer to reach for it, but his side and shoulder protest wildly and he stops moving with a grunt.

Hesitation forces his finger to pause over the button hidden at the nape of his neck where his cape rests. Before he can put too much thought behind it, though, he presses down and sets off the silent emergency alarm. Tim relaxes down against the concrete, letting the blood loss blur his vision for the moment.

With the adrenaline from the fight draining out of him along with the blood in his body, Tim is becoming more and more aware of the pain pulsing with his every heartbeat. 

He’s painstakingly aware of his surroundings suddenly: the dim high rises of the warehouse with the hanging lights that beam down severely, the stacks of crates along the walls and in the occasional heap where Tim and Trigger Happy had knocked them over before Tim subdued him.

The trail of blood from the ever-widening puddle that far too closely resembled what he imagined to be Jason’s last view before the ticking came to a stop with a bang. 

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a stopwatch had started with the press of his emergency button. The hand hits the forty-five second mark as Tim feels almost hypnotized by those bloody boot prints leading from his body to the exit. 

This could be his end, and he’s stuck looking at the footprints left by his murderer imprinted with his own blood. It’s better than watching a timer tick down, he supposes, but just as lonely. 

The warehouse closes around him, suffocating him all of a sudden, and all he can think about as he struggles to breathe is Bruce. Bruce, who’s already lost a Robin in a warehouse. Bruce, who can’t handle losing another soldier in his war against Gotham’s crime. Bruce, who became a father figure for Tim when he’d needed one most, just as Tim became the partner Batman had needed after Jason.

He sees the stopwatch hit a minute and a half in his mind’s eye. It seems that his penchant for keeping track of time for patrol reports isn’t failing him, even at his end. 

The time it had taken Bruce to make it to the warehouse Jason had been tricked into going to in Ethiopia was hidden deep in the Batcomputer’s files, but Tim had found it within his first month as Robin.

Two minutes and twenty-three seconds.

Tim reckons he’ll be too far gone by then. He’s not willing to bet money—the blood loss isn’t helping his brain any—but he likes to think it’s not affecting him too much. 

He’s forced to reconsider that as the room starts spinning, and he bites back a curse. The stopwatch is nearing two minutes and Tim’s chances of making it out of this warehouse alive are dwindling. 

_This is how Red Robin goes out? In a fight with a couple rookies and their bad aim?_ Out of sheer incredulity, Tim laughs. He can survive Gotham’s streets at age nine but nineteen year old Tim can’t take on thugs he’s been trained to beat. The irony cuts as deep as the knife in his side.

His eyes are closing on the sight of his blood spreading around him as the pain encompasses him. In his mind’s eye, the stopwatch hits two minutes and fifteen seconds. Tim is ready to lay here for whatever is left of his life, ready for Gotham to finally see the end of another Robin, ready to let his blood drain out so the pain can _numb_ —he hears the rev of an engine and his eyes snap open.

 _Bruce_. He made it.

Two minutes and seventeen seconds.

Tim almost sobs in relief. He has to stop himself when the movement twitches the blade in his side. He grunts at the sudden pain, but all he can think is _Bruce_ as he tries to sit up anyway. His palm slides on the slick ground, his body crashing back down and he cries out.

Hands are pulling him up suddenly, and Tim stammers out Bruce’s name, his own hands scrambling for purchase on the Batsuit. 

But it’s not the Batsuit. It’s Nightwing’s suit.

“Dick?” His voice is hoarse and so _small_. Tim’s watery eyes meet Dick’s through both their domino masks.

Dick tightens his grip on Tim, securing his hold on him. “Hey there, Baby Bird, I got ya.”

“Where’s—” Tim’s voice breaks, and he _hates_ it. He looks away from Dick, putting his head on his shoulder instead. “Where’s Bruce?” His voice still wavers, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it.

“He, uh—” Dick cuts himself off, and Tim realizes he’s listening to his comm. A hand leaves Tim for a split second as Dick turns it off. “He wasn’t as close as I was, so he sent me.”

Tim nods absentmindedly, vaguely processing his answer. Before he can really finish processing, Dick is talking again.

“But he’s almost here, so we need to wait for him, okay, Baby Bird? I need you to stay awake for me. Don’t fall asleep on me, you know you drool,” he tries to joke, but Tim can’t feel the normal rise that would get out of him. 

In fact, he can’t feel much right now. That’s mildly concerning.

He tries to tell Dick as much, but his mouth won’t cooperate enough to form the words. Dick keeps sending him worried looks, and deep down he knows why, he _knows_ he knows why, but at this point he really just wants to sleep.

Has he ever been this tired before? He’s stayed awake for a solid 33 hours before, and he doesn’t remember it feeling quite like this.

“Hey! Hey, stay awake.” 

Tim’s eyes open slowly, and he feels Dick relax. “Wha...?”

He registers another rev of an engine, and he’s confirmed that it’s really Bruce when he sees him hurry into the warehouse.

“You were supposed to stake out the warehouse.”

Bruce is right. He was. Crashing in through the window and fighting the thugs was _not_ on tonight’s to-do list. He should apologize. Or sort through files for the next month. Or give up the cape—

And yet. “Bruce?” is all he can say. 

The set of Batman’s mouth softens the slightest bit, but his voice remains firm as he turns his intense stare to Dick. “Get him in the car. I need to look around.”

Next thing Tim knows Dick is adjusting his grip on him to carry him to the Batmobile, and pain is flaring through him. He tries to protest, to stop Dick from doing whatever it is he’s doing— _it_ _hurts_ , _stop_ , _please_ —but it’s all in vain.

“I know, Timmy,” Dick says lowly, his voice straining as he walks to the sleek car, and Tim lets himself go limp.

Getting in the car happens within a blink, limbs being maneuvered this way and that. Somewhere between his legs being pushed into the right position and his head being placed against Dick, Bruce has taken his place in the driver’s seat and the Batmobile is rumbling beneath him.

The ride back to the cave is a blur of pain and incoherent sights and sounds, streetlights blinding him for fleeting seconds like his own personal rave from hell. Tim thinks Dick is saying words but they fall flat against his eardrums. 

He vaguely registers Dick removing his cape and harness, but Tim’s head is stuffed with cotton and he just feels _nothing_ for the first time in...whatever. The seat beneath him is familiar and foreign at once. With his mind in a fog and his body feeling ethereal, his hand drops onto the seat, the leather feeling cool against his burning skin. 

It’s been months since he’s been in this car, since he’s been with _Bruce_ in this car. Since he’s been with Bruce in any car, really. He spent more time on planes and buses and in cabs than in personal cars.

His eyes, though glazed over, look up at Dick. He’s talking still, but not to Tim. Dick was in this car every night with Damian for almost a year, but Tim couldn’t go near it until he found Bruce. He couldn’t taint those memories of chasing the robbery of the night or driving home with his Batman, the Robin cape weighing his shoulders down, but his chest puffed out in pride.

Tim’s brought back momentarily when he feels the Batmobile stop rumbling and he’s being pulled from the car, from his memories of the good and the hectic and _the Batman and Robin of his past_. For a second he tries to fight, to stay in that lost time, but then Tim hisses out the remaining breath from his lungs as his side is jostled. He shrinks back from something cold against his now bare back—when was his suit pulled down?

When the floor starts moving away from him—or is _he_ moving?—Tim stops struggling against the cold and rests against it fully. He sees Dick pushing his gurney toward the medbay, saying something about a wake, and he finally lets himself close his eyes and pass the fuck out.

It’s late evening when Tim comes to. He feels the pull of the IV in his hand and the crook of his elbow, grimacing as he tries to sit up. He feels a hand immediately push him back down, the unexpected pressure forcing him to sober up and actually look around him. Dick’s face is suddenly all he can see, and Tim jerks and falls back against the pillow. 

“How are you feeling, Timbo?” Dick asks from his left, sitting in a chair and looking like he’s been there for a long time. His earnest eyes give Tim’s body a once over to make sure nothing came out of place when he sat up. 

“Like shit,” Tim mumbles. He rubs his palms over his eyes, ignoring the prick of pain from the IV needle jostling in his arm. “How long was I out?”

“19 hours.” 

Bruce’s deep voice from his right startles Tim enough to jump. The needle tugs sharply and he winces, letting out a soft, _“Fuck,”_ which earns him a stern grunt from Bruce.

Dick takes Tim’s arm, tugging it to pull Tim’s hand from his face, sympathy lining every worried crease between his eyebrows. “I’m gonna go get Alfie, you stay here and rest.” He pats Tim’s shoulder twice before he leaves the medbay. 

Bruce’s stare burns Tim’s forehead to a crisp. Tim refuses to move his gaze from the bandages wrapped around his torso. The man may be a solid eight feet away from him but Tim can feel the imposing presence as if he’s directly next to him. 

Counting to 5 in his mind, Tim waits Bruce out. He hits 5 just as Bruce says, “You were supposed to be watching the building.”

He rolls his eyes, finally meeting Bruce’s eyes for the first time since he’s woken up. “Yeah, well, that one thug was just so ugly I _had_ to punch him, you know?” When Bruce’s expression doesn’t change, Tim sighs. “I couldn’t get a good view from outside, so I went up into the rafters instead. That’s when I saw it was an active deal.” He decidedly leaves out the part about the bird flying in his face, and the part where he tripped on his cape, and the part of him falling right behind the two thugs dealing. Tim shrugs. “I guess they got spooked and my cover was blown.”

Bruce narrows his eyes but doesn’t question him immediately. Taking the small win, Tim tries to move on from what happened in the warehouse last night. Before he can get a word out to change the subject, Alfred sweeps into the room.

Tim waits patiently as he checks him over, not quite registering as Alfred goes through the usual procedures. He notices Damian hovering at the entranceway, but through the haze of morphine he doesn’t think much of it. 

He zones out, but is brought back by Bruce’s deep voice. “Until Alfred can clear you, you’ll be benched from patrol.” Tim goes to protest, arguing how he isn’t too injured to go back out tomorrow, but Bruce won’t hear any of it. 

Before the argument can progress, the alarm on the computer blares. Bruce turns and goes to the computer, tapping at the keyboard for a moment before calling to Damian. Tim blinks and Damian has changed into his uniform and the two are off in the Batmobile.

Tim sits there for a moment. He feels more than sees Alfred shuffle around him, putting away the medical supplies. 

His fingers tap against his thigh. The rhythm speeds up with every moment he sits on the cot, his heartbeat pulsing beneath his bandages. His stitches feel like they’re crawling over his wounds over and over and he resists the urge to scratch at them until he can’t feel them anymore. 

Feeling the sudden need to be anywhere but this medbay, Tim stands up from the cot and barely says anything beyond a simple, “I’m going to bed,” to Alfred.

His face is carefully blank as he says this, not meaning a damn word. 

The halls blend together slightly as Tim goes toward his room. He turns right at the last moment, heading for the manor’s garage. The garage has air that won’t suffocate him and a way out with no one to stop him. 

Or so he thought.

Just as Tim sees the door to the garage, he stops short when Cass comes in from the garage herself. They stand opposite each other for a few moments. She eyes the bandages poking out from the collar of Tim’s shirt before smiling and making the first move.

“Be safe.” She pats his uninjured shoulder as she passes him, her steps making no sound as she goes.

The air trapped in his lungs suddenly pushes out, leaving him breathless. Trying to shake it off, he pushes forward into the garage. It’s dark but he doesn’t bother with the light switch. Tim’s hand finds the keypad and the garage door slides open in front of him.

For the first time since he woke up he can breathe. Truly _breathe_. So that’s all he does, leaning against the cold cement wall of the garage. Once the world stops shaking around him, he pushes off the wall. Before Tim can stop and go back inside to sleep for another day he’s climbing onto his motorcycle, kicking off to leave the garage behind him.

Tim glides through the streets, letting the sharp wind prickle his skin. He turns randomly, feeling the endless possibilities with no destination in mind.

He hits a turn a bit too sharply and pays for it immediately. The bandages feel wet, clinging to his skin, and a glance down confirms that blood is seeping through. In a split second panic he recognizes the street name to his right and he follows the route he has memorized in case of emergencies.

Even if he never thought he would need to use it.

His motorcycle is parked in front of Jason’s main safe house and he’s in the elevator heading to the fourth floor within three blinks of Tim’s eyes. 

They were pretty long blinks, to be fair.

He doesn’t know if he’s hoping Jason is in there or not, but he crosses the old stained carpet to apartment 4C all the same. Tim knocks on the faded door as soon as he reaches it.

It takes a long moment, but then the door opens to reveal a disheveled Jason Todd rubbing one hand over his face, the other bracing his weight on the top of the door. He looks at Tim before asking flatly, “The fuck are you doing here.”

Without having thought he’d get this far, Tim flounders before blurting out, “Oh hi.”

Jason stares Tim down, very bemused. _“Oh hi?”_ He rolls his eyes, shutting the door and grumbling, “Can’t deal with this shit.”

Before the door can close completely, Tim starts to tip and catches himself on the doorframe. That gives Jason pause, and Jason looks Tim up and down as if really seeing him for the first time tonight. Tim feels the blood seeping through his bandages and soaking into his shirt.

Jason sighs, his eyes glancing upwardly before he opens the door wider, looking like he ate a sour piece of fruit. “Fine. Before I change my mind.” He turns away to walk to the hall bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t get blood on my couch.”

Tim can’t stop looking at the Wonder Woman logo printed on Jason’s pajama pants over and over, a large embroidered logo in the center of his ass. Figures this is what the all-fearing Red Hood wears on his night off. 

“Nice pants.” Tim grimaces. He’s not doing great at this whole ‘hey I’m at your apartment, no I don’t really know why, but hey could you help me while I’m here?’ “I mean—”

“Stop talking, kid.” Jason emerges from the bathroom with a banged up first aid kit. “At least they’re not blood-soaked,” he snipes. There’s really no heat behind the words as his hands maneuver the bandages away from Tim’s torso. Tim hisses in pain when the cut is shifted in a movement, and Jason winces. “Fuck, who did you piss off?”

“I called them Stabby and Trigger Happy.” Tim forces out a chuckle. “A couple thugs from Two-Face’s gang.”

Jason inspects the damage, letting out a low whistle. “Well, Stabby got pretty friendly with your kidney.”

With a wry grin, Tim retorts, “Actually he missed it by half an inch.” He lets out another hiss when Jason removes a bandage a little too quickly. “ _Ouch_.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Jason says with a roll of his eyes. His fingers thread a needle. After he cleans away stray blood stains from Tim’s stomach, he starts restitching the wound. Tim makes small grunts of pain with every other push of the needle, and Jason grimaces with each noise.

Tim watches as Jason ties off the last stitch. As soon as Jason kneels back on his heels Tim is flopping back away from him, leaning against the base of the couch. While Jason cleans up the various threads and the needle, Tim stares down at the stitches lining his side. 

They’re not badly done, like he’d been half-expecting. For a guy who didn’t go into the medical field they’re actually pretty damn even. Tim’s vision goes black for a split second, and he lets his head fall back against the couch cushion. 

Okay, maybe he isn’t as healed up as he originally thought. 

He feels Jason’s gaze on him every few seconds, but he’s more focused on rubbing the dizziness from his eyes.

The next time he opens his eyes a bowl of pasta is being thrust into his hands with a glass of apple juice set at his side. He stares at the bowl blankly, the image he’s seeing not processing with where he is.

Jason pushes the bowl so it’s cradled in the dip of Tim’s lap and isn’t at risk of spilling over. “Eat.” 

Tim looks away from the bowl to Jason, hoping to hide the confusion on his face. From the look Jason is giving him, it’s not very successful. 

“Just eat the fucking pasta.” Jason moves past him to settle heavily on the couch next to Tim’s shoulder. 

Tim takes a small bite, sighing after he swallows. “It’s cold.”

“You’ll live.”

Pouting, Tim takes a few more bites. It’s, admittedly, not the worst he’s ever eaten. Better than the pancakes Dick attempted to make for Father’s Day last year. He drinks the apple juice in three gulps.

He feels the cushion shift behind him as Jason fidgets, and Tim stuffs his face with more pasta to look anywhere but Jason. 

The silence is palpable for a few minutes until Jason finally breaks it by saying, “So _why_ are you bleeding on my doorstep in the middle of the night?”

“Uhhh.” A pasta noodle falls back into the bowl, dropping from Tim’s open mouth after he’d been shoveling a forkful in, not expecting the loaded question Jason just dropped on him. “You know, just passing by.” 

He hears Jason scoff and shrinks around the bowl in his hands. “Passing by,” Jason repeats, his voice slightly incredulous. “Passing by a building two and a half miles from your apartment? And even further from the manor?”

Tim carefully shrugs with his good shoulder, contemplating his answer. He rolls possible excuses around his tongue, but eventually he comes out with, “I needed a change of scenery.” Internally he screams at himself, because _what kind of vague bullshit is that?_ But it’s the hole he’s dug for himself, time to lie in it. “And I figured, uh, this was a pretty big change, y’know?”

He chances a glance over his shoulder at Jason, and sighs at the narrowed eyes looking back at him. “It _is_ a change of scenery,” he mutters, looking away. A little more loudly, he says, “I just needed to get out of the manor for a while.”

“You were at the manor?”

Tim half-shrugs again. “I was a bit too out of it to tell them to take me to my apartment.”

Not expecting the blunt response, whatever Jason plans to retort falls flat, and Tim eats more pasta. 

They sit in silence once more, the only sounds around them being Tim’s fork scraping against the bowl and Jason’s near-silent-but-definitely-still-happening breakdown as he processes Tim’s statement.

Tim shrinks even further around his bowl, the cold pasta getting more bearable with each bite as long as it keeps his mouth busy. He’s just finishing the last of the noodles when Jason breaks their silence for the second time. 

“How’s dear old dad?” 

His head snapping back, Tim grimaces, setting the bowl down next to his empty glass. He forces himself to relax and face Jason. As he leans his good side against the base of the couch, his shoulders slump under what feels like the weight of the world. “Fine.” Jason raises an eyebrow, and Tim sighs. “He benched me,” he says shortly. 

Jason whistles, crossing his arms and resting his ankle against his knee. Tim can feel the nonchalance of Jason’s presence calm him down slightly, and takes a breath.

“Tough break, kid. How long is he cockblocking you?”

Tim’s nose wrinkles and he leans away from Jason slightly. “Why are you like this?”

Smirking, Jason says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m a fucking delight.”

“Whatever you wanna believe, I guess,” Tim snarks back, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

“That’s all you got, rookie?” 

“Well, I’m not exactly on my A-game.”

Jason shrugs. “Sucks to suck.”

Tim scoffs and rests his elbow on the couch cushion next to him to hold his head up. God, he really is getting tired but he feels too exposed, too vulnerable on the floor of Jason Todd’s apartment. The blood loss must be getting to his head because he finds himself blurting, “You know, I didn’t think I was gonna make it out of that warehouse last night.”

Jason doesn’t say anything, just watches Tim warily. 

Tim looks down at his hand, the bruised knuckles throbbing from the burning stare. “It seemed fitting, when I was…there…that I met a similar end to the Robin I’d idolized more than any other. Real poetic irony, huh?”

He sees Jason shift out of the corner of his eye and shuts his mouth abruptly, wishing he’d never said anything in the first place. Jason is still watching him, but it feels like a more analytical stare than judgement. 

“I always saw you as my replacement, Bruce’s do-over,” Jason starts slowly. “But you were really just a kid. A kid who needed a purpose.”

 _And a family_ hangs in the air, unsaid but heavily present nonetheless.

Jason is quick to move on, saying, “You really idolized me? Some kid from the streets of Crime Alley?” The incredulous note in his voice makes Tim laugh in surprise.

“Robin was my hero— _you_ were my hero.” Tim grins. “I would sneak out to follow you every night I could to take photos. Yeah, sure, Batman was there and he was cool: the man, the myth, the legend, and all that. But _Robin?_ No one really believed the rumors about a younger Robin. But I knew you were out and kicking ass. So I set out to get the clearest shot I could.” Tim’s grin grows softer and more wistful. “It felt like I was a part of something, a part of a secret, even if you guys didn’t know I was. I felt like I…” _(like I belonged)._

He trailed off, and he could see Jason sit back further into the cushions in slight disbelief.

“You mean you risked your skinny ass every night to see me in my scalies?”

Tim barked out a laugh, dropping his arm to swipe the air. “ _No_ —well, I mean, I guess?” He shakes his head, chuckling nervously. “Your fashion sense wasn’t exactly the draw for me,” he finishes dryly. 

“Hey, you had the right idea when you took up the pixie boots,” Jason says with a finger pointed at Tim. Tim’s face contorts in confusion, not seeing where this is going. “You put on some goddamn pants.”

Clearing his throat, Jason stands from the couch and leans down to grab the empty bowl and glass from beside Tim. He gives Tim’s thigh a little kick as he passes. “You can sit on the couch, loser.”

The kick jars Tim into sliding up to curl slightly into the corner of the couch, reflecting on the heart-to-heart he just had with the Red _fucking_ Hood. 

Before Tim can fully process the meltdown he’s currently having, he hears Jason turn off the water in the kitchen and head back to the couch. Tim hears him mutter, “His fucking _hero,_ ” but Jason cuts off whatever else he was going to say.

Jason is just plopping back down on the couch beside Tim when the door bursts open, and Jason’s gun is aimed at the doorway in a blink.

Steph stands frozen in the doorway, a six-pack of Coke dangling from one hand and two pizza boxes balanced on the other, a book sliding precariously down the top of the boxes. A moment passes where none of them move.

Then Steph waltzes in as if she’d never paused and Jason puts his gun away with a string of curses.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Blondie?”

Steph drops the boxes on the kitchen counter, turning back to look at Jason with an offended scoff. “It’s _Book Night,_ jackass.”

Tim looks between Steph, standing with her hands on her hips, and Jason running a hand down his face. He hears a muffled, “Right, _fuck,_ ” escape through Jason’s fingers.

Turning back to the pizza, Steph calls out, “I’m not sharing my pizza with Tim, so I hope you learned your kindergarten manners, Bucket Boy.”

Tim shrugs at Jason’s exasperation, trying to hide a smile. “I hope you got the good toppings.”

“He didn’t.” Steph hands a box of pizza to Jason, who immediately shoves half a slice into his mouth. She scrunches her nose and walks to grab the second pizza box from the counter.

As she’s settling down next to the coffee table, pizza box within reaching distance, Steph subtly looks Tim over. She realizes that Tim noticed her looking, so she shoots him a wink with a small side smile before telling Jason, “Is it possible to drown in pizza? Because I think you’re trying to, and succeeding.”

Jason rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop until the slice is gone. Once he’s swallowed, he says, “Oh, look. I’m alive. Again.”

Steph snorts. “Yeah, unlike Jacques Saunière.”

Jason sobers, scowling. “That guy died honorably, yeah, but God why did he have to leave it as a code? He couldn’t have just left a note?”

“It’s called _The Da Vinci Code,_ not _The Da Vinci Note,_ Jay,” Steph retorts.

“Discount Riddler, that’s what he is,” Jason grumbles. 

Tim laughs, and Steph nudges her pizza box closer to him with a wink.

He grabs a slice of her pizza—finally, some good fucking food—and sits while they argue over their differing interpretations of a fictional crime scene instead of questioning every move he makes, unlike at the manor.

Tim’s muscles relax, and he lets himself laugh at the outrageous comment Steph makes and Jason’s exaggerated groans as he eats his ridiculously greasy pizza. 

_“The code is NOT his booty call’s number, Steph!”_

Steph’s cackle rings through Tim’s ears and he chuckles.

Yeah, he belongs. Took him a few years, but he’s made it.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed my fic!!! be sure to check out the batfam big bang for more amazing creations from other talented people, and check me out on my personal tumblr where i sometimes post stuff - feel free to bug me i love to talk!! and (because i crave constant validation) i appreciate any and all kudos and comments!!


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